


Nothing At All

by ghostofgatsby



Series: Repo!Hats [3]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Repo! The Genetic Opera, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Fantasizing, M/M, Multi, Repo!Hats, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, zydrate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-23 00:59:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8307733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: Ross and Trott had left hardly ten minutes ago.Smith can feel the itch under his skin. The tug of memories he didn't want to think about gets harder to ignore. The things they did, the organ harvests, the death... He needs the Zydrate high to take it all away.A self indulgent, somewhat trashy, look at what Repo!Smith does in his free time.(inspired by Nate’s/CookiesandKatanas’ Repo!Hats AU)





	

**Author's Note:**

> A self indulgent, somewhat trashy, look at what Repo!Smith does in his free time.  
> This has been sitting in my Googledocs for a while, because I forgot it existed. October seems like a good time to post it, though.
> 
> inspired by Nate’s/CookiesandKatanas’ Repo!Hats posts on tumblr  
> but not entirely concurrent on some details  
> for backstory, those can be found here: http://cookiesandkatanas.tumblr.com/tagged/repo%21hats/chrono  
> (some death/gore/murder cws on those. shoot an ask for a more detailed breakdown)
> 
> cws for this fic: drug usage, mention of death; injections, so I guess technically mention of needles, though I picture the injection tool more like a glue gun in looks; a rather sexually submissive drug high; fantasy of sex while high, in which all parties would know what was occurring and consent, but note that no one can actually give informed consent while high, in that regard  
> If I need to tag something else, let me know.
> 
> If you want to get into Repo, but don’t want the visual gore, the soundtrack pretty much covers the plot. Go reference Wikipedia for the correct order of songs and the summary if you’re interested.  
> It’s not so much the plot that’s important to understand here, but the universe. The Repo!verse takes place in a dystopian futuristic society obsessed with genetic/health/beauty perfection. Somehow this led to organ harvesting becoming legalized because there weren’t enough regular transplants to go around. Also involved is the ridiculously addictive drug called zydrate, which is commonly used prior to a person’s surgeries. Street zydrate is illegal, but people called “graverobbers” draw it out of corpses with a syringe and sell it to addicts.
> 
> GeneCo = SipsCo, the leading genetic enhancement and organ repossession company  
> the Hats are Repo Men, a secret team of repossessors who work for SipsCo, brutally harvesting the organs from (currently living) people who can’t pay off their surgery debts  
> Smith is a zydrate junkie who used to be a surgeon, and Trott used to be a graverobber who was (and still is) his zydrate dealer. Ross got into being a Repo Man to pay off his accidental surgical debts.  
> After working a shift, the Hats normally go back to Smith’s place to crash, shower, get food, and stay the night.
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2016/10/30/nothing-at-all-ghostofgatsby/

Ross and Trott had left hardly ten minutes ago.

Smith can feel the itch under his skin. The tug of memories he didn't want to think about gets harder to ignore. The things they did, the organ harvests, the death…

He needs the Zydrate high to take it all away.

His hands shake with a frantic excitement and desperation as he strips down to his boxers and a ratty old t-shirt, leaving his clothes in a crumpled pile on the living room floor. He pushes aside the milk in the fridge and takes out one of the vials hidden in a box in the back. The little glass testing tube of Zydrate is cold in his palm. The longer he keeps his hand clasped around it, the more the cold hurts. The clear blue liquid inside glows brightly; the sunlight shining through the curtains doesn’t dilute the glow.

Smith doesn’t bother drawing the curtains shut as he makes himself comfortable on the couch. He reaches under the seat to grab the injector tool and pops the vial in like a battery clicking into place. Really, he should wait for the Zydrate to come to room temperature. Graverobbers will tell you the high lasts longer that way, but Smith doesn’t have the patience.

Smith presses the nozzle against his outer thigh and squeezes the trigger.

The customary spark-punch of the injection makes him shudder. The jolt of electricity the needle sends always feels like he stuck a fork in an outlet. The pain it causes digs in momentarily, but is quickly soothed away while Smith watches the vial drain until empty.

When the injection is complete he pulls the tool away, and lets it fall out of his grasp to clatter carelessly to the floor. Smith stretches out on the length of the couch and brushes a hand across his skin, up his thigh to the hem of his boxers. His fingertips caress like static. Touch is heightened after the dose, but his motor control won’t be as steady in a few minutes. 

Smith breathes out long and slow. His hands fall to his sides and he licks his lips, feeling the occasional limb twitch. The drug's effects start to flicker on like a lightbulb, kicking in and spreading from his head down to his toes, tingling. He clenches his hands into the cushion fabric as his head lolls back. The rush makes the ceiling blur above him, and Smith lets his eyes close and stares into the black.

Zydrate’s euphoric drowsiness soaks into his limbs until everything is numb and hazy. Smith lets himself ride it as it built, arching his back momentarily with a little groan. Z was like a lover, making him forget all his problems existed, ridding his mind of worry or fear about the life he lived, using his body like all it needed was his submission. Let it take him, and use him up. Like Sipsco would in it's inevitable drive for genetic perfection. Smith was their tool as much as Zydrate was his for forgetting.

Fuck, this was a good batch...

But then again, Trott had always provided him the best.

Smith’s thoughts are pushed from his mind as quick as they appear- except that one sticks a little longer. Of Trott. He thinks of how Trott looked late last night, hair clean and blow dried soft after his shower. Of Ross, nearby, half-dressed, looking through his bag for a clean shirt. Without their uniforms, they all look more human than they really are. More unassuming, more attractive, and more desirable.

Fuck. Smith wanted them, wanted them in a way he couldn’t explain. There was some strange type of closeness between them. He loved the banter and the company they provided, and he wanted more. But immediately after a job, desire was soured by what they’d done. The masks came off, but Smith felt farther from them, even as he shrugged off his bloodstained uniform and changed into normal clothing again.

In those fragile moments, Smith had to remind himself of who he really was. He didn’t know himself- that was the problem. Trott and Ross couldn’t find the answer for him. Their presence was a balm, until inevitable withdrawal starting clawing and scratching under Smith’s skin. The zydrate itch climbed and climbed, and Smith wanted nothing else but relief from the call. He wanted to hide from them both and get them out of his apartment, so he could forget about the monster he became each night. The dreams would haunt him, otherwise. Knives, bodies, gore, surgeries, repossessions…waking life distorted against him in his sleep. Only Zydrate could offer Smith a solution like the river Lethe, and Trott and Ross were forgettable, in the grand scheme of his escape.

Not now, though. The Zydrate made his body warm like a post-coital afterglow. It wasn’t the first time Smith had thought of Trott and Ross in more than a coworker or friend scenario. Zydrate muddled his senses, but for some reason those thoughts of them drifted the longest.

Smith could imagine falling to his knees in front of Trott and Ross, begging for their touch, their kiss. “Take it away,” he’d plead, “Let me forget. This is all I have...please...”

Trott was the only one who knew about the zydrate, in reality, but in Smith’s fantasy, Ross did too, and the two of them indulged in Smith’s petty addiction. Ross would pin Smith’s arms above him as he kissed a path down his neck, and in the meantime Trott would load a vial of zydrate into the injection gun. He would stroke Smith’s thighs, and Smith would part them willingly as Trott pushed the nozzle against skin.

Smith lets out a groan, but no one echoes it in the empty apartment. He’s alone, except for the zydrate thrumming through his veins. His head swims. Each thought gets shut down quicker than the last. The arousal that had been stirring up dissipates, because nothing lasts when you can’t think straight.

Smith feels melted from the inside out. He doesn’t have to worry about anything any longer.

Numbness soaks over his skin in waves, and his muscles fall slack and pliant against the couch cushions. Inky blankness overtakes everything.


End file.
